


The Morning After

by darkpriestess



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, don't try to match drinks with Will, it will end badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkpriestess/pseuds/darkpriestess





	The Morning After

Hannibal hasn’t felt this bad since medical school. An incompetent orchestra is playing the 1812 overture in his head, complete with cannons and musket-fire. The rocking of the boat, normally soothing, is now a sickening roll, threatening his normally cast iron stomach. He keeps his eyes resolutely closed and takes stock.

_ Tachycardia, palpitations, nausea, dry mouth, severe headache. Diagnosis: hangover. Cause?  _

_ Will Graham. _

Hannibal can hear the cause of his agony in the galley, banging saucepans and plates with what must certainly be deliberate, vicious cruelty. A dropped cup sets off a thunderous chain of fireworks in Hannibal’s head and he clutches his skull to keep it from shattering.

“Sorry!” Will yells cheerfully. 

It will be a quick death, Hannibal decides, for his remarkable boy. A cut along the jugular, clean and fast, blood spraying in elegant patterns over the white walls of the galley. Lost in this charming reverie, it takes him a moment to realise Will is  _ singing,  _ badly and off key, and the previous night returns in a rush.

They had been sitting outside on the deck staring at the stars and passing the whiskey bottle back and forth between them, painkillers and antibiotics be damned. About two thirds of the way through the bottle, Will had started crooning softly to himself, something slow and sweet and sad. Hannibal had thought he sounded beautiful, and when he said as much, Will had broken off and laughed his rare, gurgling laugh. “ _ Hannibal _ .” Will had said, still grinning, “I can’t sing worth a damn.”

Then- _ then- _ and Hannibal is almost sure he is not imagining this part-Will had crawled drunkenly into his lap and kissed him, clumsy and messy and perfect, sending the stars into a dizzying spiral above them.

There had been some fumbling caresses, Hannibal’s hands creeping under Will’s shirt, both of them too drunk to get hard, until Will had laughingly slapped his hands away and dragged them both to bed.

Hannibal traces the mark on his collarbone, left there with enthusiasm but precious little finesse the previous night. Not his imagination then. He opens his eyes and instantly regrets it as the ceiling spins majestically above him. Hannibal slams his eyes shut, but the room continues its gentle spin, making him think bizarrely of galaxies colliding.

Will was right, he thinks, he really can’t sing worth a damn. Every false note scrapes along Hannibal’s stretched nerves, and his fingers itch for the blade, if only he could get to it without falling on his flat on his face. He counts to ten, and when that proves to be insufficient, to twenty.

Will saunters in, indecently bright and cheerful for someone who spent the night deep in a bottle. He’s balancing coffee and water and ibuprofen and looks like an avenging angel, if angels wore jeans and unbuttoned shirts.

“How are you feeling?” Will asks with mock sympathy. Hannibal doesn’t deign to favour such an idiotic question with an answer, chugging the pills and water gratefully and relieving Will of the coffee.

“How are  _ you  _ feeling?” Hannibal rasps, unable to believe Will is really as clear eyed and bouncy as he appears. 

“Oh I’m fine. I don’t get hangovers” Will smiles smugly and throws himself on to the bed, sending the room spinning again.

Hannibal abandons the idea of giving Will a quick death, grimly hanging on to the mattress until the room subsides. A thousand cuts will not even begin to suffice-

A hand lands in his hair, stroking gently, and Hannibal lets out a dangerously contented sound.

“Sorry.” Will smirks, not sounding sorry at all. “I enjoy seeing you at a disadvantage.”

Hannibal can’t parse this sentence at all-when has Will  _ not  _ had him at a disadvantage? but he abandons the train of thought in favour of nuzzling carefully into Will’s side, let himself drift in these new, pleasant sensations.

“Lightweight” Will mutters affectionately, but Hannibal is already asleep.


End file.
